


Five Times Sherlock And John Met Cute (And One That Was Decidedly Un-cute)

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-01-15 02:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1288150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six ficlets describing other ways Sherlock and John might have met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Desserts

“Heard you’ve been to war.” Sherlock motioned for John to follow him through the dining room into the kitchen.

“What, Ramsey? Don’t believe the hype. He’s a pussy cat. Aussignac’s the real bastard.”

Thank god, a proper steel-and-butcher-block kitchen, no chef’s table for high-rolling “foodies,” no windows to the dining room. Spotless, from the top of the walk-in to the floor under the nonskid mats. John noticed that although Sherlock’s chef’s coat was slightly-flashy cobalt blue rather than white, it did not have the restaurant’s logo or even Sherlock’s name embroidered on it, but simply said, _Chef_ , on the breast pocket. Normal white-and-black checked chef’s trousers, normal black clogs. The jacket hung open over a faded black t-shirt, but he was wearing it even though he wasn’t cooking. So, slightly pretentious but not exceedingly. John wondered if the line cooks wore toques; Sherlock did seem the type who might require it.

John offered, “Word’s out you run a tight ship, yourself.”

“I’m after my third Michelin star. Zero tolerance for slackers, fuckwits, or anyone who says more than two syllables: _yes, chef_.” Sherlock motioned to the back corner of the kitchen. “Pastry’s over here.”

“ That’ll do; I’m only an alcoholic junkie with designs on your job,” John joked. “Something smells good. What’s on tonight?” John set down his cake box on the work table, started to lift out his samples.

“Braised goat, Ethiopian flavours.”

John inhaled. “Nice. How’s long’s it go?”

“Ten hours, at least; the meat melts like butter. Wagyu steaks with a root veg galette.” Sherlock shrugged. “Duck for the vegetarians.”

John pointed to his head, then at Sherlock. “I like the way you think.”

Sherlock made a gesture of faux modesty. John arranged his tasting plates in order from lightest to richest flavour-profiles as he asked, “Starters?”

“My sous chef has this beet and garbanzo-bean salad thing he’s auditioning; it’s going to flop, but I lost a bet. I’m doing a risotto—“

“You’re winding me up!”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“Are you a second-term culinary student?” John shook his head, grinning. “Is it 1997? Risotto.” He tsked.

“ _Risotto_ ,” Sherlock continued forcefully, “with rabbit-fennel sausage and farmer’s cheese.”

“Who’s doing rabbit sausage around here?”

“We do in-house charcuterie,” Sherlock sniffed.

John’s expression changed. “All right, all right. Impress me, why don’t you. Maybe you’ll get that star for your. .. _risotto_.”

“You should know I threw the last pastry chef’s damn precious ‘coffee-and-cigarettes’ bullshit dessert ripped off from French Laundry circa 2003 right in her stupid fucking face.”

“Quite right, too,” John said amiably. “You’ll get none of that from me.”

“Where else have you worked, by the way?”

“Just did six months with Ramsey; before that Aussignac for—what—four years? Every summer and at Christmas I do a month at sea.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “What—cruise ships?” He was turning John’s plates this way and that, looking at each dessert from every angle.

“Fuck, no! Mega-yachts.”

“What, Saudi billionaires?”

“Can’t say, but. . .” John tapped his nose. “Anyway, I think you’ll go for these. Nothing molecular, nothing cute. Comforting stuff--elevated, but still familiar and satisfying. Three bites is enough of any dessert, I figure, so I do a lot of pairings, trios of small plates.”

“They look good. Not too fussy. I like that you mention ‘comfort.’ You know that’s what I’m about. Real food that feels familiar but still makes you wonder what’s going on in the background. I don’t cook anything that requires me to wear eye protection just to fucking touch it.” Sherlock reached into a bin of tasting spoons, pulled out two, passed one to John. “So. Tell me about them, and I’ll taste one after.”

“You have to taste them all!” John argued.

“I’ll taste _one_.”

“Keeping in fighting fit, I see,” John offered, sweeping his eyes down Sherlock’s gaunt frame. “Like a comfort-cooking fucking skeleton.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“All right, have it your way. First is a deconstructed lemon tart: shortbread biscuits with meyer-lemon ‘jelly-shot’ and sugared blackberries.”

“For the vegetarians.”

“It’s _good_. You’d know if you’d taste it.”

Sherlock shrugged. He gripped the end of the spoon-handle between thumb and middle finger, dangled it, swung it back and forth above the work table.

“Whiskey-and-salted caramel Gypsy Tart. Couldn’t bring ice cream but I usually do it with a malted vanilla, and a sour-apple granita.”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally.

“There’s a Middle Eastern princess tried to marry me when I gave her that!” John protested.

“And did you?”

“No, but I gave some to her brother the prince and shagged him raw, the rest of August.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but damned if John could figure if he would rise to the bait. He lifted the plate near enough to sniff the slim slice of pie. He shrugged.

John looked grim. “This is a boozy pumpkin and spice cake—tons of spiced rum in there, it’s almost like a Christmas pudding. Usually I do a trio, with a chocolate bite—maybe a piece of candy, or a tuille--and a shot of hot pear cider.”

“That’s actually a little interesting,” Sherlock allowed.

“And the last thing I brought is my chocolate gateau with kirsch-soaked cherries, black-pepper crème anglais, and an espresso drizzle.” He made a gesture of offering. “So, pick your poison.”

“You say you got a marriage proposal off the Gypsy Tart?” Sherlock asked.

“Indeed,” John told him. He looked thoughtful. “The gateau, though. . .That one’s gotten me several  fantastically grateful blowjobs over the years, itself.”

“In that case,” Sherlock purred, “I’ll try the gateau.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been expanded/continued! WIth Sassy!Molly action and, oh, yes, lots of flirty banter between our men.
> 
> Read "Just Got Lucky" here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1842655


	2. Coffee, Tea, or Me?

_Monday._

“Jolly?”

Sherlock’s eyes scanned across the waiting crowd. “Double tea, black, for Jolly.”

John snorted and stepped forward. “Believe that’s for me,” he said sheepishly.

Sherlock passed him the cup with a knowing smile. “They’ll get it one of these times.”

“And speaking of names, who are you this week?”

Sherlock turned to reveal the nametag pinned to his apron, which read “+nls.”

“I give up,” John said. People behind him were starting to shift foot to foot and clear their throats, reminding John that he was slowing down the works.

“It’s Finnish; you’ll never pronounce it.” Sherlock glanced down. “Oh, and didn’t I put it on upside-down.” He unpinned it, flipped it, and pinned it back in place. “There.”

_slu+_

“Pretty subversive for this hour of the morning,” John commented, with raised eyebrows. “Enjoy your day.”

“See you tomorrow, Jolly.”

 

_Tuesday._

Sherlock glanced at the cup in his hand, looked sadly at John. “Here’s your double tea, black. Jill.”

John moaned and shook his head.

“You know, at least if you got coffee they’d be charging you for more. . . _coffee_. You’re just paying two pound, thirty for hot water.”

Of course, it had occurred to John long ago that it was a ridiculous waste, throwing away twelve pounds a week on tea he could just as easily make in the kettle in his office. But the very first time the tall, handsome barista with the unruly dark hair had called his name—well, not his actual name, of course—John was done for. He’d been throwing away his twelve pounds a week for nearly a month.

“Yes, well. I’m obscenely wealthy and a little insane,” John explained. “Right after this I have an appointment with a nice lady who spanks me and calls me ‘Princess’ at four hundred an hour.”

Sherlock didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, do tell Margaret I said hello.”

“Who shall I tell her--?”

Sherlock tapped the _slu+_ nametag.

“She’ll know who you mean,” he assured.

 

_Wednesday._

“Oh, dear,” Sherlock murmured. Then, louder: “I think this says Wes? Tern? Western? Double tea, black.”

John approached, looking chagrined.

“Tried the last name, did you?” Sherlock asked with a sympathetic look. He passed John the cup. “You can’t have said Western.”

“Ah, but I did. I always give an alias; I’m undercover.”

Sherlock grinned. “Fantastic! Funnily enough, I, too, am undercover.” He motioned for John to lean in and they both rested their elbows on the counter, heads pushed close. John hoped it was not obvious he was sniffing for the intimate scent of the barista’s dark waves of hair.

A woman behind John in the waiting herd muttered, “For fuck’s sake.”

Sherlock raised his head. “Shut it!” he snapped, “Or I swear I’ll piss in it.” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “ _Again_.” He ducked back down and said to John, “That one there? He’s trafficking underage girls from North Africa. These two—“ he shifted his gaze to the young women in headscarves working the cash register and taking orders. “—won’t be here by next week, he’ll have turned them out as prostitutes. I’m trying to identify the other links in the supply chain, cut it off closer to the source.”

John nodded, playing along. “So that’s why the new nametag, I assume. Got made, did you?”

Sherlock’s new nametag read, “Angel.”

“Oh, that. No. The big boss came by. He was not amused.”

John glanced again at the tag as the two men straightened up. “It suits you.”

Sherlock winked. “So did the other.”

 

_Thursday._

“Double tea, black, for Dom.”

John threw up his hands.

“Mistress Margaret would not approve,” Sherlock said slyly.

“I’m a doctor, for god’s sake. Why do these girls insist upon robbing my dignity every single morning?”

“There, there, Jill. Don’t take it personally,” Sherlock said, oozing syrupy faux-sympathy. “Look what they wrote on mine.” He reached beneath the counter and held up his own cup; on the side, in black marker, it said, “Anal.”

John laughed.

“Anyway,” Sherlock said, replacing his own coffee on the low shelf and reaching for John’s tea, “Doctor, it hurts when I do this.” He extended his arm robotically, passing the cup to John.

“Well, don’t do that.” John leaned in a bit, looked around to make sure no one was listening. “Listen, Sweetheart. You and I both know you’re too good for a joint like this. You’ve got legs for miles, a pretty face, and while I don’t have much to offer, I’m an honest man and—“

“Good god, what is that voice meant to be?” Sherlock demanded.

“James Mason!” John protested. “Classic stuff. Jesus, tell me you’re over thirty.”

“Tell me _you’re_ under eighty,” Sherlock replied. “James Mason,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Enh?” John raised his hand to his ear. “Speak up, darling, I’m very old.”

“I said,” Sherlock enunciated loudly, “It hurts when I do this.” He did the robot-arm thing again.

John, back to his normal voice, replied, “Take two aspirins and call me in the morning.”

“I prefer to text.”

“Kids today.”

“Or I could just nudge you.”

Speechless, John sipped his tea and it burnt his lip, but he didn’t mind. A man behind him in the crowd cleared his throat aggressively.

“Until tomorrow, young man.”

 

_Friday._

Somehow, the whole staff had turned over in just the past twenty-four hours. New kids at the register and at the bakery counter. Overweight, unhappy-looking fortysomething man in a cheap shirt and necktie ordering them around from beside the cappuccino machine. And worst of all. . .

“Fabio? Half-caf Americano for Fabio.”

The handsome barista was gone. John cursed himself for not having the balls to ask for his number when he’d made that overtly flirtatious remark the previous day, about nudging John in the morning. God, he was an idiot.

“Millie?  Mollie? Triple capp for Millie or Mollie.”

At least he could save his twelve pounds a week, now, and make his tea at the office. Should he ask at the counter if the handsome barista—Angel? Probably not. Certainly his name wasn’t really Slut-with-a-plus-sign. What had the other names been? Benedict was one. And a few weeks ago, Martin. Dammit.

“What the hell. . .?” the far-inferior barista muttered.

John looked at his feet. He wanted to kick his own arse. An expensive pair of shiny black leather shoes arrived beside him, the break of the trousers arranged just so—tailored, obviously, you didn’t see that much these days—center crease pressed to razor’s edge exactitude. Some banker, no doubt, who wouldn’t miss his own twelve pounds a week, that was for sure. Look what he must have spent on those shoes.

“Doctor John Watson,” the barista enunciated, and John’s head snapped to attention. “My name is Sherlock Holmes and I would like to invite you to cancel your office hours today,” the barista turned the cup side to side, reading the heavily-markered surface, “and join me at my flat at 221B Baker Street, to sit together under a duvet on the sofa and watch a selection of James Mason’s classic films.”

John’s mouth gaped. He accepted the proffered paper cup from the barista and stared at the words inked on it in neat, efficient block letters.

A voice from beside him. “Someone’s got an admirer.” The well-tailored man.

John turned. His handsome barista. Only, clearly, he was not a barista, not in a suit like that, not with that logo embossed on his shirt buttons. And dressed like a proper adult, it became obvious, tiny lines beside his smiling eyes. . .thank god, he was--yes--probably over thirty.

“So you really were. . .?” John’s voice trailed off. He gestured to the all-new staff.

Sherlock grinned. He raised his cup in a toast.

“Cheers,” he said. “To you, Jolly.”

“And to you. Ehm. Angel.”

Their cups briefly kissed; John blushed.

 


	3. Reader, Meet Author

“ _The phone went; Thomas answered_ ,” John read out. Small turnout; the reading had been added to the schedule just the previous day so the listing hadn’t made the Sunday papers’  literary sections. A dozen or so, half men, half women, each sitting alone with a chair or two between them, some holding his new book—the book he was reading from—in their laps, one or two with well-worn paperback editions of his first or second novels. They all looked kind, attentive.

_“If you ain’t sure what you need,’ the cabbie said, ‘you get everything you don’t.’”_

Except the one man in the rear corner, his chair pushed well back from the last row, long legs extended, feet in pricey shoes propped up on the seat of the chair in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He was aggressively turning pages in what looked from John’s distance at the lectern to be some oversized, illustrated reference book.

John continued. “ _Thomas agreed to meet me the next day but not before extracting a vow I would owe him one. Against my better judgment, I capitulated_.”

A quiet snort from the man in the back row. John was unnerved, decided to finish early. “ _There we were, stoned as can be, and recklessly I asked him what I should do. Thomas said he wanted me to kill him._ ”

John looked up, closed the book and set it aside. He smiled graciously at the smattering of applause from the dozen audience members, as well as from a few people browsing nearby in Science Fiction and World History. The mousey bookseller who was nominally running the thing motioned for John to take a seat at a nearby wooden desk heaped with copies of his book—clearly far more than would be sold tonight—and then announced that he would sign copies. With a crowd so small, he was relieved when she did not add that a purchase would be required. These people had obviously gone out of their way just to be here; no need to put the screws to them.

He made small talk with each of them in turn, posed for two photos, signed the books, thanked them for coming. In forty minutes, he was finished. The publicist brought him a paper cup of weak tea from the employees’ break room, then wandered off again with her phone to her ear. The bookseller offered him a dollop of hand sanitizer, which he accepted, and she thanked him again for coming.

The man from the back row, arms crossed in front of his chest, eyes narrowed as if he were suspicious of John. “Will your next book be so blatantly derivative as this one?” he demanded.

John cleared his throat, straightened his spine.

“You’ll forgive me if I defend myself by saying I don’t feel it’s derivative at all.”

The man scoffed mildly. “Palahniuk, Delillo. Mailer, for god’s sake. Bukowski.” He uncrossed his arms, thumped a book down on the desk in front of John. “Cavemen in the modern era, masculine posturing cuddled up with violence and ennui, crisis of the heterosexual imperative. . .”

“What on earth are you on about? Are you just making up words?” John wanted to laugh.

“Men read your work because it makes them feel validated in their choice to be lazy misogynists rather than acknowledge their role in the oppression of all of humankind, including, ironically, themselves. Women read it because they are superficially attracted to an archetypal male oppressor.”

“Oh, so it’s you that ran that poll of the entire human race about my work.”

“In the end, though, all the man vs. man sabre-rattling and ladding about is really just so. . .” The man tented his fingertips on the desk, leaned forward on them, ducking his head closer to John’s. “ _Homoerotic_.” He cocked a well-groomed eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you agree?” John tried to remember when he had seen such blue eyes in a human face before, drew a blank.

“Well,” John said, “Yes.”

The man looked stunned for half a second, but quickly recovered.

“Of course it’s homoerotic,” John said, making a gesture of surrender. “I don’t think anything I write could ever be otherwise.” He extended his hand for a shake. “John Watson, by the way. And you are?”

“Sherlock Holmes.” His handshake was acceptably firm. Sherlock’s hands were soft, but so were most people’s nowadays; John’s only callus now was on his thumb where it hit the space bar. The cuff of Sherlock’s beautifully tailored shirt was monogrammed; he had money. Or someone who loved him did.

“Is this a hobby of yours, then,” John offered in a friendly tone. “Confronting gay writers about how gay their work is?”

“I’m teaching a course—“

“Should have guessed that,” John grinned.

“On homosexual subtext in twentieth century, straight-male-authored literature. It’s called, From Mailer to Morrissey: Gay—“

“Morrissey,” John scoffed. “Don’t lump me in with that closet case! I won’t have it.”

Sherlock huffed out a small sigh, said nothing. He pushed his book toward John, picked up the pen lying on the desk and handed it to him.

John looked down briefly. “This isn’t my book.”

“I don’t want your book.”

“But—“

“I want this book.”

“Can I ask why you even sat there listening to me read when clearly you don’t like my books?” John paused. “Have you even read my books?”

Sherlock looked insulted. “Of course I have. You have an intriguing way with language; you write novels as if they were epic prose poems. But, thematically, as I said before: derivative,” he said dismissively.

“And too full of latent homoeroticism.”

“Apparently, you knew that. In my defense, many of the writers you’ve cribbed off remain blissfully unaware of the level of homosexual tension in their work. I figured you for one of them, too, because weren’t you in the army? What could be more archetypal than the soldier, dominating weaker beings through penetration with bullets and bayonets? I came tonight because I was bored, and because you have—“

John looked up expectantly.

“An interesting face,” Sherlock finished. Briefly, his expression reflected surprise at his own honesty.

“Ah, I see,” John said, trying not to give too much away. Something about this Sherlock bloke was intriguing; the bluntness was refreshing, in its way, if a bit painful. And John was curious as to whether the creases in Sherlock’s forehead might smooth out once he got some wine in him. “Well, whatever it takes, I suppose.”

John opened the book Sherlock had presented, but couldn’t quite bring himself to write in the flyleaf. It was, indeed, a reference book: an atlas of Asian countries.

“You’re going to buy the book if I sign it, right? Otherwise it’s just vandalism.”

Sherlock reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and threw a twenty-pound note on the desk.

“I don’t actually work here,” John said. “What’s the interest in Asia?”

“I’m going on a sex tour,” Sherlock deadpanned.

“Ha!”

Sherlock looked offended. “I could be going on a sex tour. You don’t know me.”

“Sherlock, is it?” John started to write. _To Sherlock with best wishes as you embark on your Asian sex tour. Sincerely, John Watson._

The bookseller approached the desk and stood beside John, wringing her hands in front of her denim skirt. “I’m afraid we have to finish up, Dr Watson, the shop’s closing.”

“Oh, certainly,” John said. He reached beneath the desk and found his bag—battered canvas messenger thing from his much younger days, covered in patches and stickers, but he couldn’t let it go even though it was inappropriate; after all these years it had reached talisman status—and motioned to the publicist, standing in New Adult Fiction with her phone to her head. Did she not know those things caused brain tumours? She waved back at him.

John handed Sherlock his atlas, and handed the bookseller Sherlock’s twenty. “My friend here is buying this book. Sorry, I forgot your name?”

“Molly Hooper. Molly,” she answered, and her face went scarlet from her collarbones to her hairline. “I’m such a fan, Dr Watson. Sorry if I’m acting silly.” She giggled in a decidedly silly way, and John couldn’t tell if she was putting it on; a lot of women seemed to think acting like giggling children was attractive. Maybe straight men found it so, but John just thought it was sad.

“Thanks very much, Molly Hooper, it’s kind of you to say. I’m a fan of booksellers, myself.” Molly went two shades redder.

Sherlock looked at her pointedly. “Is something wrong with you?” he asked. Molly looked at Sherlock as if she hadn’t noticed him there before. Perhaps she hadn’t.

John swooped in, laid his hand on Molly’s elbow and started to walk toward the front of the shop, the cash register. Sherlock trailed them. “I wonder if there’s a place nearby for a little something? Dinner?” John ventured. “I don’t know this neighborhood.”

Molly looked heartbreakingly hopeful. “There’s a little place—bistro—just two doors down.” She pointed. “Very cozy,” she added, “Bit romantic. Nice place for a quiet conversation.”

John grinned. “Sounds lovely. Thanks again for everything.”

“Obvious attempt to hold onto rapidly vanishing youth,” Sherlock muttered.

“What’s this, now?” John asked, tilting his head.

“This bag of yours. Clearly from your days as a student, which are well behind you. “ Sherlock pointed urgently. “You’ve got a Morrissey badge on there!”

“Just because he’s a closet case doesn’t mean he isn’t fit,” John defended. “Just the sort of skinny prettyboy I go for, actually.”

Sherlock set his jaw, refused to be baited.

“Anyway, you hang onto the bag because despite your advanced age of--what, 43?--”

“Thirty-eight, thank you.”

“--you think it makes you look cool. To whom? Other middle-aged, former hipsters?”

“Look,” John sighed, “When you’re done yanking my pigtails, you could just ask me to dinner.”

Sherlock eyed John up and down with something like suspicion.

“I’m interested in hearing more from you about my interesting face, and the substantial homoerotic undertones in my work,” John said, conscious of the bit of extra gravel in his voice. If Sherlock wanted to fixate on the dominating, penetrating soldier, John would happily play the part. Sherlock’s eyes widened, and his posture shifted slightly. Something inside him had bent and broken so that John was fairly certain he heard the _snap_.

“Would you like to have dinner?” Sherlock asked.

“Absolutely.” John gestured. “After you, Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock started to go, John following close behind, tossing his battered old messenger bag over his shoulder. “Thank you, Molly. I hope we’ll meet again sometime,” John said over his shoulder.

Molly smiled, then sighed.


	4. The Most Poetical Thing

Once the household staff had been dismissed for the evening, they gathered in the kitchen for their meal. Holmes preferred quiet, while Molly—the housekeeper, though Holmes thought she was far too young and unserious for the job—would usually let the maids get loud and giggly at the table. “Miss Hooper, if you please,” was all Holmes needed to say, though, and Molly would hush them.

When Watson arrived, he yanked his cap from his head as he crossed the threshold, and wiped his boots without being reminded.

“Mr Holmes?” he asked, in a voice quieter than Holmes expected from a man so solidly built. “I’m John Watson, the new gardener. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Watson extended his hand and Holmes shook it. “Welcome to Stonefield Hall, Watson. Please, have a seat, the girls are just serving.” Holmes gestured to an empty chair near the head of the table; Watson would sit at Holmes’ elbow.

Once the girls began passing the food, Holmes turned to Watson. “I understand you were at the front,” he said.

“Indeed. Gerry shot me once, but I survived it.” Watson indicated his shoulder. “Arm’s a bit weak but seems to get better every month. Doesn’t stop me working.”

“Good man,” Holmes intoned. “You’ll linger with me a bit after the meal so that we can go over your expectations? Then you can get straight to work in the morning.”

“Certainly, Mr Holmes.”

The maids were giggling.

“Miss Hooper, if you please.”

The meal finished, the girls cleaned the dishes, and Molly shooed the junior staff from the kitchen.

“I’m to my stitching, then, Mr Holmes, unless you need anything else?” She poured them tea.

“Thank you, Molly. We’ll be sure to rinse our cups.”

“Good night, then, Mr Holmes. Mr Watson.”

Holmes hummed, tamping tobacco into his pipe. Watson rose from his chair as Molly left the room.

“What’s that?” Holmes asked, motioning toward Watson as he resumed his seat.

“A gentleman stands for a lady,” Watson said.

“You’re not a gentleman,” Holmes intoned, then puff-puff-puffed his pipe to get it burning.

“No, I suppose not. But there’s no harm in it. Miss Hooper seemed to appreciate it.”

“Oh?”

“She blushed a bit. Her neck.”

“You’ve no need to be looking at her neck. Despite Fred and Mary--they're married, I can't stop them, now--I don’t run that sort of household.”

“No, sir.”

“You’re not a married man, then, Watson?”

“No. I was, but she died, my Jane. Coughed herself to death during the war.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She was a fine woman. I’m afraid I didn’t love her as well as she deserved. I was fond of her but I don’t reckon it’s in my nature to be a husband.”

“Mm. Children?”

“No. One little fella back in ’14, but he only stayed a week. For the best, though, since his ma didn’t make it. I’m even less a natural father than a natural husband.” Watson tipped his teacup, lifted the saucer full of tea to his lips and sipped. Holmes looked disapproving but said nothing. “What about yourself, Mr Holmes? Are you married?”

Holmes snorted a bitter laugh. “As you say, it’s not in my nature. My uncle and grandfather were butlers at Stonefield before me. I consider myself married to my work.”

“That could make for a lonely life, but.”

Holmes coughed out pipe smoke, just a single, quick cough. “Shall we go over what is required?”

“Yes, sir.”

Next morning, Watson brought a bouquet of wildflowers from the far edge of the west meadow to the kitchen door and left it with Molly Hooper. She arranged the flowers in a pitcher and set it in the middle of the long table. At midday Watson stopped for his lunch bucket and she offered him cucumber water, which he gratefully accepted; the heat was coming on early this year. When he settled under a crabapple tree to eat, he found she’d packed him an extra piece of cake.

A few weeks later, more flowers for the table, more extra sweets in Watson’s lunch bucket, and Holmes stood at the head of the supper table and cleared his throat just once, which quieted the whole staff instantly.

“I want to remind all of you that with the obvious exception of Fred and Mary, fraternization among the staff is strictly forbidden. Margaret, what does ‘fraternization’ mean?”

Timid Margaret, a chambermaid who couldn’t have been more than thirteen, sprang to her feet as if she were in school and squeaked out, “Boys and girls chatting together and that, Mr Holmes.” She sat so hard in her chair Watson was sure she must have bruised herself.

“Yes, thank you, Margaret. It’s the ‘and that’ which concerns me.” He looked pointedly at Molly, but seemed to purposely avoid looking toward Watson. “I assume I am understood.”

Holmes resumed his seat, Molly said a quick blessing, and the meal began. Once the table became lively with chatter, Watson turned to Holmes and said, “You’ve nothing to worry about, Mr Holmes, as regards Miss Hooper and myself.”

Holmes hummed.

Watson leaned as close as he dared. “I’m sure you remember I said it’s not in my nature to be a husband.” Watson’s knee pressed against Holmes’ beneath the table, and stayed there.

Holmes froze for a moment, then resumed eating. He did not move his leg away from Watson’s.

“I would advise,” Holmes said to a forkful of stew meat, under his breath, “That you make your intentions clear to Miss Hooper; she is too good a woman to be allowed a misapprehension.”

“Yes, sir. I agree.”

Holmes had a tiny office off the side of the wine cellar, and he summoned Watson there late the next morning.

“I wanted to be sure you had spoken to Miss Hooper,” he said.

Watson nodded again. “I daresay she understood, already, that my interests lay elsewhere.”

“Oh?”

“The flowers on the kitchen table.”

Holmes cocked an eyebrow, questioning. Watson took a step forward. “I thought Molly would have told you. They were never for her.” Watson drew a yellow rosebud carefully from the pocket of his jacket, gently arranged the petals with the tips of his fingers. He stepped around Holmes’ desk to stand beside his chair.

“They were always for you.” Watson tucked the short stem of the rose into Holmes’ buttonhole, let his hand come to rest on Holmes’ lapel, against his chest. Holmes covered Waston’s hand with his own, and his eyes fell closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet has been expanded into a SERIES! "Dawn Before the Rest of the World," the first story of is, "Art and Nature," (linked below)
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/1339756


	5. A Study In Punk

**_Fall, 1994._ **

****

Crossing Boston Common, John was rapidly learning, meant dodging not only passed-out winos in the middle of the (frankly, nonsensical—where did they lead?) footpaths but also stepping around flocks of tiny, screaming kids on school trips, and gaggles of taller—but also screaming—college girls (mind your gaze, Watson; girls like that don’t go for punks—especially old punks who, if we’re being honest, probably remind them of their dads).

Every now and then a grey squirrel darted out from behind a trash bin and ran hell-for-leather in one direction for fifteen feet before swerving a sharp left and sprinting that way a bit before legging it halfway up a tree just to run straight down again. John had taken some green triangles back in ’81 that made him act similarly, and his only advice was to just ride it out, mate; you’ll survive it as long as you stay out of the road. Those are cars, right, not big fucking dogs that want to play with you.

“John! John Watson!”

John turned, doubled back to a fella leaning back on a park bench, drinking something from a brown paper bag. He was wearing well-loved Doc Martens boots and knew John by name, but John couldn’t immediately place him.

“Mike Stamford,” the guy offered, and reached out for a handshake. “They called me Stomp? I used to work the door at the Zipper Club.”

John gave his hand a shake. “Yes, sorry,” he offered. “Yeh, Stomp. . . ”

“I know, I got fat,” Stomp offered jovially, forgiving John not recognizing him.

“Naw,” John replied, waving his hand. “It’s just a bit of a surprise. You know, out of context meeting someone from London—the old days—here, now.” John lowered himself onto the bench and shook his head when Stomp offered a pull on what must have been a tall can of beer tucked inside the paper bag.

“I’m doing some engineering now, recording some bands for Gil Norton and some other producers here. A couple of ‘em are signed to 4AD, back home.”

“Ah, elevator music for housewives on valium then,” John offered.

“Pays the rent.” Stomp took a pull from the can, belched, tossed the empty into a nearby bin. “Heard you were on the road—what, managing a couple bands, now?—probably getting crabs from groupies, knowing how you was back in the day. What happened with that?”

“Got crabs from groupies,” John offered, and they both roared with laughter.

“So, just staying in town ‘til you get back out there?”

“Actually both my bands imploded spectacularly earlier this summer. The singer in one got pregnant by the drummer in the other, but was married to the bass player in her own. . .Not much left for me to manage but my plane ticket home after that.”

“Kids, what? Havin’ all the fun. I say, fuck ‘em.”

John nodded. “Anyway, I have a bit saved up and had a crazy idea to maybe open a club. Like the ones from back at the end of the ‘70s, before the New Romantics came ponce-ing in and fucked it all up with their mascara and their fucking, what, space-pirate clothes. Proper punk place, you know, like the 101, Skelly’s—the Zipper, god, hadn’t thought of it in years.”

“You set your drum kit on fire, I remember.”

“Fucked myself but good on that one; they didn’t even pay us that night, and I was without a floor tom for months after.” John smiled wistfully at the memory. “It actually kind of became my signature, I think, that I didn’t have a full kit.”The two of them nodded and grinned, grand-dads thinking back to better times. “Punk rock,” John offered at last, with a shrug.

“Punk rock,” Stomp agreed, with a gentle pump of one fist and a snarl.

“Anyway,” John went on, “Like I say, I’ve got a bit of dosh, but probably not enough. I could get a building but that’s about it. Fucking liquor licenses in this city. . .”

“Borrow some from your sister, maybe?”

John scoffed. “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen!”

“I dunno,” Stomp offered. “Maybe get a business partner or something?”

“I can’t even manage to keep two bands together through one fucking summer. Who’d want me for a business partner?”

Stomp brayed out a loud guffaw.

“What?” John demanded.

“You’re the second person to say that to me today!”

John was skeptical. “Who was the first?”

*

Molly Hooper was dressed in cut-off denim shorts over black fishnet hose, and a Dead Kennedys t-shirt; the blue streak in her hair was fading to turquoise and the lot of it was tied in knots and held in place with baby’s barrettes. She reached under the shop counter and offered a stack of five records in battered cardboard sleeves to Sherlock, who leaned against the counter on one pointed elbow, his rangy frame emphasized by impossibly tight black jeans, wide studded leather belt, and what used to be a whole t-shirt but by virtue of having its sleeves, neck-ring, and most of its sides scissored away was now more just a suggestion of clothing, held together with safety pins and good will.

“Just in,” She told him. “ _Sexty Seven_. The singer used to work here; I knew him. He was weird.”

Sherlock shuffled the stack, pulled out another album and slid the disc from the sleeve. “We’ll start with The Riding Crop.”

Molly accepted the album, fingers holding it by its edges, and moved to put it on the turntable. What came out of the store’s speakers sounded not unlike a car crash: squealing, screeching, shattering glass, loud thuds, and screaming. She wrinkled her nose; she preferred her music to sound more or less like music. But ever since Mudhoney. . .

“So, bad day, was it?” she joked, pointing to the spinning record.

“Just listen to it for twenty minutes,” Sherlock implored her. “Listen like your life depends on it, and soon enough, I promise you, it will.”

She tilted her head, looking contemplative, and finally asked pointedly, with a saucy half-grin. “Is there a chorus, though?”

Sherlock looked annoyed.

“What’s with the pink lipstick?” he asked, suddenly. “You don’t look like yourself in that. I’m used to the red stuff. Punk girls wear slutty red lipstick; death rock girls wear black.”

“I’m not a punk,” Molly said, in a chipper voice, and reached to lift the arm off the record. “And I’m not a death rocker. I’m a—“

“Don’t say riot girl,” Sherlock demanded, purposely pronouncing the “i” in “girl.”

“Riot _grrrrrrr_ l!” Molly said, and poked her tongue at him. “All girls to the front!” She motioned around her with one hand, passed the record back to Sherlock with the other. “Look at this! I own the coolest fucking record store in this neighborhood. It’s actually all mine!   _That_ is fucking pussy power!”

Sherlock grimaced, rolled his eyes. “ _Euch._ Don’t say pussy.”

Molly held her fingers in a “V” in front of her mouth, waggled her tongue up and down between them. Sherlock made a show of retching into a nearby trash can.

“How about some coffee?” She suggested, ringing up a No Sale to open the cash drawer.

“Black, two sugars,” Sherlock replied, sliding his record back into the jacket reverently.

Molly shoved a ten-dollar bill at him. “I take mine regular,” she said, and jerked her head toward the door. Sherlock pouted mildly, but left his stack of LPs on the counter and left the shop, headed for the nearest Dunkin Donuts. “Ask them for extra pussy!” Molly shouted after him.

*

A bit later and Sherlock was still hanging about Molly’s shop, staring down the young trendy kids who looked at him like he was some old geezer relic. He’d fucking introduced Siouxsie Sioux to Robert Smith. Chrissie Hynde used to make him beans on toast for his tea. Fucking Johnny Rotten used to sleep on his fucking sitting-room floor. They were a bunch of piss-heads in flannel shirts and torn jeans, thought they invented punk rock when all they were doing was shouting football chants about hearts and flowers, and crying in their milk bottles about how hard their lives were in their suburban bedrooms. Kurt Cobain. For fuck’s sake.

In rambled Stomp Stamford, fat bastard from Blighty. No, but he was OK. Sherlock was just riled because of these fucking kids and their pocket money and their round-trip commuter-train tickets from the arsehole of the universe, Suburbia, U. S. of A. Stomp was solid. He’d been there.

“Aw’right, Stomp,” Sherlock said by way of greeting. John stepped in beside Stomp, took in the whole of the store with a critical eye, which took no time at all given how tiny it was, shoehorned between a faux-French café and a pharmacy rampant with junkies nodding off in front of the condom displays after getting their dose of methadone at the clinic across the street. Sherlock ignored the odd twinge in his belly at first sight of the slightly-greying fella in the mismatched Converse high-top trainers (one navy, one grey) and addressed Stomp again, “Can I borrow your walkman?”

“And what’s wrong with the stereo, there?” Stomp challenged, nodding toward the audio system behind the register.

“I like the headphones,” Sherlock said by way of half-explanation.

“Sorry. Left it at home.”

John reached into the inside pocket of his leather biker jacket. “Here,” he offered. “Use mine.”

“Oh.” Sherlock sized John up. “Thank you.”

“It’s an old mate of mine,” Stomp offered. “John Watson. Formerly known as Johnny _Wasted_.”

Sherlock took the proffered walkman, fitted the headphones over one ear, left the other against his unruly black curls of hair behind his ear, started rolling the tuner to find a radio station.

“Lollapalooza or Woodstock?” he asked.

“Sorry?” John looked to Stomp for help; Stomp only grinned knowingly.

“Which was it—Lollapalooza or Woodstock?”

“Lollapalooza. Sorry—how did you know. . .?”

“Molly, how about getting more coffee?” Sherlock offered.

“Fuck off; I’m not your slave-girl,” was her cheerful reply.

“Did you just put on red lipstick to prove how punk you are?” Sherlock demanded.

“It’s the same fucking lipstick,” Molly insisted.

“It’s not. It’s red. Now you just look like a prostitute.”

“I thought all the punk girls wore red lipstick,” Molly challenged.

“You’re _not_ a punk girl; you said that yourself.”

Molly smacked the back of his head.

“How do you feel about Einsturzende Neubauten?” Sherlock asked, a sudden non-sequitur.

John looked from Stomp to Molly, finally cottoned on that Sherlock was talking to him. “I’m sorry,” he said, “What?”

Sherlock was still fiddling with the tuner on the walkman. “I play loud industrial records when I’m doing the books or stocking the bar. Sometimes I do nothing but cut and paste pages of my zine for days on end.” He looked up from the walkman’s tuner and met John’s gaze. “Would that bother you? Potential co-owners of an authentic punk club should know the worst about each other.”

John looked puzzled. “Oh. . .” he turned to Stomp. “You. . .told him about me?”

“Not a word,” Stomp replied, throwing up his hands in surrender but still with the smug smile.

“Then. . .who said anything about opening a punk club? Or business partners?”

“ _I_ did,” Sherlock said smoothly, unwinding the long wire of John’s headphones from his neck and bundling it together with the little black radio/cassette-player; he laid it on the counter near a stack of flyers. “I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a business partner for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from touring with one of the big festivals. Wasn’t that difficult of a leap.”

John, eyes narrowed, shifted inside his leather jacket; the sleeve creaked. “How _did_ you know about Lollapalooza?” Sherlock reached his long arm over the counter and pulled out a denim jacket covered in studs and patches, with the graphic from a Misfits t-shirt sewn crazily to its back with red thread, started to shrug it on. He reached into the inside pocket and liberated his own walkman, rested the headphones around his neck.

“Got my eye on a nice little place near Fort Point Channel. Together we oughtta be able to afford it.” He started across the shop. “We’ll meet there tomorrow—seven o’clock. Sorry. Gotta bust. There’s another Riding Crop import EP waiting for me at Mortuary Records.”

“Fickle!” Molly near-shouted, flipping him the middle finger.

Sherlock fitted  his headphones over his ears, reached for the door.

John stared after him. “Is that it?” he asked incredulously.

Sherlock paused. “Is that what?”

“We’ve only just met, and we’re gonna go look at a club?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Problem?”

John looked to Stomp for help, a look of disbelief at Sherlock’s audacity running across his perpetually slightly-sleepy-looking face.

“We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting. . .” John was riled; this guy was strange. And he smelled like coffee and the sugar-dipped filters of clove cigarettes. And he was a bit gorgeous, really, if John was honest, skinny but with guitarist’s biceps. But even still. “I don’t even know your name.”

Sherlock’s pale eyes narrowed; John noticed there were faint trace’s of the previous day’s black eyeliner still visible at the outer corners of Sherlock’s eyes, and along his lower lashes. Something sprang to John’s mind then, something he’d read once about two people staring into each other’s eyes for sixty seconds were bound to end up fighting. Or fucking. He didn’t look away.

“I know you’re the former drummer for a band called the Wasteds and when they didn’t make it, you stayed in the business, but not as a musician—you’re not a suit-and-tie type, still got the punk ethic, so you started managing bands, got a few booked on a big festival tour but they were volatile and couldn’t stick it out—not even for their big break. And I know all your old mates from home think you’ve sold out—quite correctly, I’m afraid.”

John looked down at his leather, his fairly-new Converse.

Sherlock finished, “That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” He went to the door, yanked it open, and walked out. Momentarily, he leaned his gaunt frame back inside. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.” He shot John a quick wink that, despite the mild bafflement/annoyance blend he was carrying in his gut, stirred a quite different sort of feeling elsewhere in his body.

Sherlock glanced back at Stomp. “Later.”

Stomp waved one finger upward in farewell, and Sherlock vanished out the door. John turned to Stomp, and he could feel his own mouth gawping slightly open.

Stomp laughed, shrugged. “Yeah,” he said. “He’s always like that.”

 

-END-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do we think? More of these old punks?


	6. Controlled Bleed

John is gagging for a fight.

He’d got the password from a mate who travelled between John’s usual club and this one. Well, “mate” is relative. A guy from the club. They could as easily be called lovers or brothers as acquaintances or—fuck it—strangers. It's not about getting to know anyone (like dating). Not about endless talk of feelings (like therapy). Not about taking an interest (like friendship). This is about taking a pounding and living to tell the tale. It's about causing damage to another person’s body, with their permission, as much as you can or want to (short of killing them). This is about mayhem. Blind rage. Ten glorious minutes of shutting off the restless, noisy brain and just living inside your skin, even though it hurts. Because it fucking hurts.

Sherlock loves fighting someone new.

Ten minutes is more than enough time for him to discern a man’s weak points, and exploit them. Hence, he’s never lost a fight. Lost a fingernail (psychopath later banished from the club—too late for Sherlock—stomped his hand in what all present agreed was a cheap shot). Lost a lot of blood. Lost two teeth. But never lost a fight. He knocks them out or they tap out. Several of them were stupid enough to want rematches with him; he always beat them faster in a second fight. His record is an 8-second fight won with a single uppercut to the solar plexus. That guy has never been back.

In a surprisingly quiet voice, the night’s master of ceremonies announces, “Fight.”

The crowd of about forty men tightens around the ring drawn on the floor with sand. The relative quiet explodes as they begin to shout: jeers and encouragement. No one bets.

Sherlock’s a grappler, because size is not on his side. Despite being tall and well-muscled, he is whip-thin and his center of gravity is high, making it easy to knock him off balance. He sinks deeply at the knees and charges at John’s chest, leading with a shoulder. A satisfying, “Oof!” from John, and the fight is underway. John’s strong left punches into Sherlock’s side once, twice. . .a third punch slides wildly off Sherlock’s back because his skin is already sheened with sweat.

John is surprised at the strength of Sherlock’s grip, one hand on his upper arm, the other arm around his waist as Sherlock leans into his chest. He’s going to try to throw John, it’s obvious, but when Sherlock's leg sweeps back and catches John behind the knee, he is nonetheless surprised as he lands hard on his back, Sherlock’s full weight atop his chest. John takes advantage of Sherlock’s shifting grip and jabs at Sherlock’s face with his right. The sensation of Sherlock’s jaw grinding off-balance under his knuckles is almost erotic, and John grunts contentedly.

Sherlock rises to his knees, straddling John’s middle, and a flurry of quick jabs to John’s face is like a series of starburst explosions—white light and stinging pain. John catches Sherlock’s wrist, disrupting his rhythm, and swings a wide left against Sherlock’s ribs. There is a distinct snapping sound and Sherlock shouts, falls to the side. John heaves a huge breath, scrambles to his feet, squares up. He can feel something running down his face, sweat, or blood. Maybe both. Good.

Sherlock is on his feet, knees bent, chest heaving. A flesh-coloured blur and he has kicked John in the gut, knocking the wind out. John stumbles backward a couple of steps, and the crowd around them reacts—if John steps out of that ring of sand, the fight is over and he loses. Fuck no, he’s not going to lose. Fuck this skinny little shit.

John takes two giant steps and his balled fist lands just below Sherlock’s collarbone, the sound of it a thick _thump_ of meat on meat. Sherlock dives under John’s raised left arm, digs his shoulder into John’s armpit, and John is on the floor again with a thud, but this time Sherlock doesn’t go down with him, instead kicks him--hard and quick--in the gut. John covers with both arms, rolls himself up to his knees just before Sherlock gets in another punch to his face. John’s head wants to lead him to the floor but he resists, somehow stands. He shakes his head, hard, to clear it.

Sherlock can see the change in John’s face; it just got dangerous, and Sherlock better finish this thing or he’s going to have to put a “1” in his loss column. Sherlock ducks behind John and kicks the back of his knee, then slams his elbow down onto John’s newly-exposed shoulder, sending him back to the floor. John’s hand shoots out and grabs Sherlock’s forearm, sliding down toward his wrist because they are both drenched with sweat. John pulls, and Sherlock cannot check his balance in time, and somehow he is flat on his back with John sitting on his pelvis, and John is pummeling his face. Sherlock refuses to lose consciousness; he refuses to tap out.

John is tiring. His punches are weaker, off the mark, and they come less frequently. Sherlock spits a mouthful of blood off to the side as John lands another strong left, square on his cheekbone, and Sherlock hears a crunching noise reverberate through his skull. Nothing hurts because everything hurts. Sherlock makes a wild swing with one leg, catches John’s shoulder, forces him down and away, and now they are grappling on the floor, each trying to pin the other. John’s breath is heaving; Sherlock groans and spits more blood.

“Tap out,” John demands, through gritted teeth.

“Go fuck yourself,” Sherlock snarls back, and John gets him in a choke hold.

“You’re done. Tap out.”

Sherlock kicks backward, his heel crashing against John’s shin, and the shock of the pain makes John loosen his grip enough that Sherlock is able to slither away.

“Two minutes left to fight!” someone shouts, and Sherlock grins, blood staining every one of his teeth. He lands a lucky punch on John’s eyebrow and it splits, blood pouring out, it’s a beauty, blinding John’s right eye. John blinks, squeezes it closed, but it's useless; it's the sort of wound that gushes until it’s sutured. Just fight through it.

Sherlock sways now, foot to foot, dizzied. When John squares up, his fists only rise as high as his elbows, he’s exhausted.

Someone in the crowd yells, “Kill him, Mate!” and it stokes both their fires. John growls and surges forward, landing a punch in Sherlock’s gut that doubles him over, but he keeps his feet under him. John steps back, steps forward, swings, but Sherlock ducks and weaves, pops up beside John and punches. He hits John’s ear and it buzzes, a high pitched whine John vaguely imagines he might now hear forever. John turns. Swings crazily. Connects. Sherlock’s lip splits wide open, crushed between his teeth and John’s knuckles. Sherlock stumbles, dangerously close to the edge of the ring. Somehow recovers. Charges John with both arms outstretched, trying to knock him off his feet.

John absorbs the weight of Sherlock, who collapses against him, arms thrown over John's shoulders as if they were dancing. John pushes him off, punches out at his chest again, which sends Sherlock to his knees, and then, onto his side on the floor.

John considers dropping to his knees, throwing more punches, but he is utterly spent, the most beautiful exhaustion he has ever known, he wants to lie down in the ring and sleep for a week, bleeding, aching, he won’t even feel it because he’ll sleep like the dead.

Sherlock rolls slowly back and forth, side to back to side, hugging himself, wondering vaguely why the opponent is not kicking him, not punching him. Has he missed the end of the fight? Has he won?

A whistle blows. John is standing, but he is half-deaf, half-blind, bleeding, bruised. Sherlock is on the floor, also bleeding, spitting blood, choking on it. He is sure his rib is broken, and probably two of his fingers.

John offers Sherlock a hand up, and Sherlock takes it, shambles to his feet. They lean against each other like tent poles, both pairs of knees weak, both naked chests gasping for breath, slick with sweat and grime and blood.

The winner’s hand is raised. The crowd cheers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been expanded upon/continued in a fic called "Cutmen."
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/1426756

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [This Is War](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1752518) by [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander)
  * [A Study In Punk 2: Fight Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12055434) by [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander)




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